The Fight
by ilovemythoroughbred
Summary: Sequel to my first FF 'Fire is Catching'. Katniss & Gale have established their new lives and Katniss regrets her last words to Peeta. Katniss/Gale
1. Chapter 1

I am a teacher now, taming the fire of a fight for life, and gifting it to each child. Some days I struggle, trying to figure out how to pin words to the Hunger Games. For a child who has grown up in the secure land of the new world, how can you possibly bring to life what I, Peeta, and everyone else went through? How can you illuminate a battle so desperate? Even my own children, whose blood runs with my own very flame, cannot picture the fate claiming day of the reapings, or the dank halls of District 13.

Gale chose to keep his knowledge to himself, except if our own children should ever want to try their hand at hunting and setting snares. He prefers to keep the woods quiet, besides the barely audible sound of his tread across the leaves. He makes a good living for our family, bringing in the rich meat and pelts. The Hob is legal now, though few are skilled enough to feed themselves off what they can hunt, so deer and rabbit are hot commodities.

I make a decent living too, though the new mayor assured me it isn't really necessary for a human to teach the material. There were enough books and movies on the rebellion, he had reasoned, that there was no need for me to resurface those painful memories. But, for me, it was a part of the healing process. By teaching it myself, I could honor the non public faces of the rebellion. I might have been the Mockingjay, but what about Boggs, who manned the mission to President Snow's mansion? Or my Gale, who risked himself countless times? And lastly, Prim? What's more honorable then a little girl going to care for the wounded?

Either way, it felt wrong to let the tales of the Games and the following rebellion be taught by the robotic, prerecorded tones. Bloodbaths should be recalled with a human mind and a human voice to speak them, and little humans themselves deserve that bit of tenderness. Perhaps it was the disparity in my eyes that led him to discover that I needed the job, but not for the money.

Nevertheless, life goes on. Gale's pre dawn, pre dew hunts become a ritual, while I prepare the children for school. Our daughter looks remarkably like me, and acts similarly to both Gale and I. When it was her turn to hear about the Games, my past, she was struck with an awe sort of respect. She didn't understand, quite yet, but yet, she did. The fight, the reasoning behind it, made sense to her, even if it hadn't made sense to me.

What I wouldn't do to be so innocent and simpleminded again, to see things as they really are. The beginning years of bliss in my childhood, before my father's death, were all I had to remember of such a time. I cherish her years as a quiet, cheerful girl, clinging fast to the hope that our fight was enough to make it last a little longer.

The boy, though he may be Gale's child, looks almost like Peeta. He carries the deep, soul searching gaze, though his eyes are grey. His personality is a cross between the two, quiet and respectful, fierce and passionate. The innocent years never belonged to him, however. His gaze let me know instantly that somehow, he already knew of the evil in the world, but he was not afraid.

Through all of the titles the fight gave me, it is the epilogue of the same battle that leaves me smiling. As my children say 'I love you, Mother' when they leave for school, it is a special sort of happiness that rushes through my veins and feeds my fire. I pause by the doorway for a second, watching them walk, pointing out the chirp of each bird, identifying them.

But, as I slip back inside, crossing the room to poke the fire, I peer out the window towards Peeta's home. Sometimes, if it's not the screams I hear first, I can see the flash of his blonde hair through the windows. I wonder if he feels desperately alone, but I don't feel welcome to comfort him.

"What do you want for dinner, Catnip?" Gale calls from the door. It may have been years since our original encounter in the woods, but he still adorns me with that nickname.

I smile, genuinely. "Whatever you can find."

He chuckles. "At least it's a perfect hunting day. It might be blisteringly cold, but the snow will cover my tracks."

"Be careful," I warn him as I accept a small kiss. The electric fence may be another figment of the past, but it's almost a ceremonial saying now.

"As always," he replies in the same fashion. I watch him stride off towards the woods, before once again closing the door. Hunting is still just as precious to me, but the deer won't be out in the beginning of the blizzard. Likewise, I have no classes to teach today, as the other teacher will start everybody on the Dark Days before it's my turn.

I look out the frosty window towards the rest of the Victor's Village, or rather, what's left of it. The homes that were never lucky enough to home a killer have been torn down, for more farming fields or other homes. Peeta and I's are the only that stand. Even Haymitch had left his, concluding that it was only the closet of his drunken ghosts.

I see nothing, and feel the same. I never pined to see him, I am Gale's, but it still stings to think of how badly I might have hurt him. I resort to poking the fire and endlessly rearranging the piles of paper for my next class, debating how wrong it really would be to go over there. For someone who was thrown in an arena as little more then a killing machine, I really do hate to have enemies.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: To the guest reviewer who pointed out that this was in the Katniss/Peeta section even though it's Katniss/Gale, that was my bad. I put it in the wrong section by accident. I suppose it could be Katniss/Peeta since it's mainly between Katniss & Peeta, but you're right, the romance is not Katniss/Peeta. And you'll see about Peeta's happiness. I can't give away the story now, can I? As always, thank you for the reviews!**

The cold always feels even colder when you leave a warm home. But, what about people? Does a person seem colder after you've been graced by someone warm? It's a short walk to Peeta's house, which is falling rapidly into a state of disrepair. Even after our last fight, every spring he had planted a row of evening primroses beside his house, a respect to both Prim and I. He always made a point to maintain the perfect white paint, but the new chips in the clapboard didn't blend into the blizzard's white.

How exactly should I introduce myself? Friends is not the word, but strangely, neither is enemies. We are an odd sort of friendly, Peeta and I. Friendly enough to watch each other — through frosted windows and doorway cracks — live our lives, yet not daring enough to utter a word. It's sort of wrong, really, to leave our partnership in the Games, and the rebellion, to go to waste.

If he won't be the daring one in our unspoken friendship, I will. I tentatively reach out to knock, and end up rapping my knuckles against the peeling red door a bit more forcefully than intended. What if the hijacked Peeta is the one I end up facing?

The space between the time the door opened and my knock stretches on and on. I'm not exactly sure what to do with myself. Wrong, again, it seems, to stand here. I'm not a long lost lover, and at this point, barely a friend. I'm not here to apologize, either.

But, the bronze doorknob does click and does unlock. I step back instinctively, and there, there Peeta is.

I bite my lip and furrow my brow, darting my eyes back and forth from his eyes to just about anywhere else. "Hi."

While he takes time to craft his reply (whether it's baited with anger, pity, regret or sadness, I can only fathom a guess) I survey him. He looks a bit more scrawny then I remember, lacking the rich muscle of the baker's son. His hair is a bit overgrown, yet it now resembles a hair cut more suited towards a man than a teenager. His eyes have not changed the least, and his face is only decorated with a few age marks. All in all, he looks … fine. Not taken by morphling, or alcohol, or any past victor's drug of choice.

I repeat myself when his voice doesn't fill the silence. "Hi."

He stares back. Not into my eyes, or even through them, however. His gaze is nearly nonexistent, nor here nor there.

"Hi?" I say once again. "I'm sorry, I—"

Peeta finally blinks. "Hi."

"I—" I begin again.

"Hi."

"Hey …" I trail off. My social experience doesn't exactly know what to do with this situation. In most of the relationships of my past, right about now is when I'd be shooting an arrow into his heart.

"Why are you here?" Somehow, it doesn't seem hostile when he says it. His position remains unchanged, however. Peeta stands in the doorway plainly, arms hung not limply, but not firmly at his sides, his feet square. His shoulders don't sag, but I can't describe them as strong and confident, either. He simply … is.

"I don't know, I just—"

He interrupts me again. It's almost annoying, but I'm grateful he's interacting with me at all.

"Oh," he responds as if knowing I wasn't going to attack him was the best response I could have given him.

I turn the corner of my lips into an awkward smile, hoping it doesn't come off too stiff. Unfortunately, I think it does, as Peeta continues to stare nowhere in particular.

"I wanted to see how you were doing," I finally say. It took long enough, but it was the point of coming over …

"Oh," Peeta says again.

The irregular exchange of words is nothing like the conversations he was easily able to conduct with Caesar. He leaves me nothing to reply to, and I barely manage to do the same.

Suddenly, I find myself continuing to speak. "I invited you to the wedding. Or rather, Gale and I did. We did our toasting with your bread."

"I know," is all he says.

"I wore an old dress that Cinna had made me. Not one of the wedding dresses, though."

"That's a shame," he keeps his replies short and concise. At least he's replying.

I nod. "Hazelle wore one of them at her wedding."

"I know," he repeats. "I was there. With you."

Now it's my turn. "Oh." Conveniently, this turns the conversation starting point to him.

"How … how are your kids?"

I stare back at him this time and shift on my feet. "They're good," I'm not sure how much I should say to him. Considering how close we had once been, he's been missing in my life for a fair amount of time.

"That's good."

"So," I continue. "How are you?"

Peeta narrows his eyes, covering the sky blue eyes with his eyelids. I notice how his skin has settled into it's natural color, even if all these years later, mine still is slightly pink because of the skin grafts that covered both our bodies after the rebellion.

"Would you like to come in?" he replies instead. He opens the door a little wider, giving me a wider view of the mess inside. It's not as messy as I expected, but it is nowhere up to the expectations I had once held for him.

Expectations, however, are meant to burn. I follow him inside, continuing the awkward smiling, and settle by the wall.

"It's messy," Peeta says. He runs his hand down a cheek, down his chin, where surprisingly, no facial hair grows. He can't be too badly hurt if he manages to shave.

"It's not that bad," I reply. That's a bit of improvement, I think to myself. Managing to reply without spending too much time trying to figure out the right words to say. We're getting somewhere.

Regardless of how well I might fool myself into thinking it's going, it's uncomfortable standing in the doorway of someone I used to cherish. "You look good."

He looks me up and down. "So do you. Your skin is still a little pink."

"It never really settled quite right on me, the skin grafts."

He nods. "I can tell."

Another silence spreads between our words. I look down at the floors, which are shielded by a fine film of dust. Really, if you didn't look to closely, the picture of the falling apart home and falling apart Peeta didn't look too be bad.

If I didn't look too close. Yet, here I was, inside that very house, trying to salvage a conversation with that very person. I was in the belly of the beast, far beyond the point of just observing. "I see you, sometimes. In your house, through the window."

"I see you, too. And the kids and Gale."

"Do you still bake?" I ask. An odd question after his reply, but he still isn't giving me much to work with.

"Sometimes."

"There's no bakery in town, anymore," I say. "I miss the cheese buns."

He looks a little deeper into my eyes. "Now that you can finally afford it, there's no place to buy them."

I nod. "Funny, how that works, isn't it?"

"It is how it is."

I smile again. "Have you heard from Effie?" Somehow, turning the conversation to something distinctly from our past seems to keep the conversation at a steady, albeit slow, pace. It's the only way we'll ever get to talk.

Peeta remains motionless. "No."

"Me either," I use my own voice to fill the void. "Everyone though her and Haymitch had a thing … he's very happy with Hazelle, though. And she has to be special to him to be able to cure his alcoholism. Even we couldn't do that," I manage a small chuckle, which comes out sounding fake and forced.

"You mean you couldn't do that," Peeta says.

I glance around the room. "No, I mean he never could put down the drink during the Games. It didn't matter if he was trying to make sure we stayed alive, the whiskey was right there beside him."

"You mean, when he was trying to keep you alive."

I bit my lip. "No, I mean both of us."

"You were the favorite, Katniss," he says my name for the first time. I'm used to Gale's 'Catnip', Greasy Sae's new 'Cat' but I will never adjust to the cold way my name escapes his lips. Even after the hijacking, it was never like this.

"I didn't mean it like that —"

"I know," the cold tinge in his voice fades. "But, it's true."

"It might have been. That's not what I would have chosen. You know that … don't you?"


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Hate to throw in another AN, but had to add an apology for this being short. I'll add a few extra chapters tonight to make up for it, but this sort of needs to be concise to complete it.**

It was clear that there was many words left unspoken when I left Peeta's. It was clear that there were just as many words, if not more, that needed to be said not only during our halfhearted reunion, but throughout the time we had known each other. "Peeta," I suddenly said, caught in the middle of his doorway. "Have … have a good day."

"You, too, Katniss," he replied quietly. He held the door open for me, and I slipped out. I swept my braid to the side and concentrated on my footprints into the dusting of snow as I left his house. Obviously, there were still many wounds to heal, many apologies to be said and tears to be shed. There was so much we needed to lay to rest.

I knew marrying Gale, choosing Gale, would not be easy for Peeta. I knew it would hurt him, but I had also hoped he would still want to see me, even if I had made it clear I didn't want to see him. Peeta had been standing behind the raging blaze, and when the fire finally died, I was no longer there to see him. I had risen with the flames and trails of smoke, leaving Peeta a shadow in the destruction.

I stopped in my tracks and turned back towards his house. The apologies, realizations, were choking in my throat, but his door was already shut, his curtains already drawn. He wasn't interested in what I had to say.

That was enough. We had, wordlessly, admitted we had much left to say and repair. That was more then enough. We had loosely committed to fixing what we had without risking our feelings, a sensible plan really.

Regardless, I had Gale, and my children to return to. Peeta had nobody, besides Haymitch, who made a point to visit Peeta frequently (perhaps to make up for favoring me), and Delly, who stopped in between her government job. For me, that would have been enough. I had started with so few people, and ended with so many. But, Peeta, he didn't know how.

Fire, fire, fire. Everything had reached the end of the candle, with no more wax left to burn. Everything was settled enough for there to be no kindling. My job now was to scrape off the wax and clean it, refresh it, revive it. I knew little of reviving, renewing something. My experience was in destruction, not cleaning up.

But alas, life is a endless cycle of patterns. When you have been taught your lesson about destruction and devastation, it is time to learn how to make amends with the mess you have created. It wasn't the mess of the rebellion and the Hunger Games I had to clean up — that was never my job, never my responsibility — rather, to make sure I didn't lose Peeta.

That, was a far more difficult struggle. Far more complex in nature, a snarl of our past and our memories and our circumstances. I had never been very good at untying knots, undoing without ruining. This, indeed, would be a far more difficult battle to fight.

I quietly slid in the door to my home, grateful for the rush of fire heated air that flooded my face. Gale and my children followed, greeting me heartily. I hugged them all a little tighter this time, appreciative they had not been lost in the flames, or drowned by the ashes.

As for Peeta, I thought as I warmed myself by the fire, he was there, somewhere, under the ashes. Digging through ashes, through dirt would be easier then treading water. He was there, certainly.


	4. Chapter 4

"I'm going to go hunting," I said absently. Just as quickly as I had come, I had decided to head back out. Gale looked at me for a moment, but then nodded, to nobody in particular.

"Be safe, Catnip," he said quietly. His hand slid from my shoulders to the small of my back, where he tapped his three fingers and gently pushed. "Go quick, or you'll miss the prime time. Don't want dinner to escape," he flashed me a subtly brilliant smile and opened the door for me.

I smiled back and slid back out into the icy air. My previous footprints were already dusted away by the new snowfall, so essentially, my trip to Peeta's was washed away. Of course, he would remember it, as would I. When do you ever really forget?

As I met the crossroads, I crossed diagonally between two of them, where the snow piles were significantly higher. I might have been older than I was when hunting was a way of life, but hunting was something I knew I'd never forget. I slipped down the snow bank as quietly as I climbed across it, and then broke into a run. The sole of my leather boots gave a thankful bit of traction as I ran.

The woods were blissfully quiet. The blistering blizzard would mean my own tracks would be quickly covered, but it would also mean the same for my prey. Regardless, I needed my bow and arrows. Skirting the edge where the District 12 fence used to be, I hooked my arm against the back of an old maple, where I pushed myself up and reached for my arrows. Though it was perfectly legal to hunt, I still hid them. The hiding place changed with each storm and weather event, but the tree had been a safe place so far. As I slid down from the ice covered bark, I noticed how even with the span of years, the vegetation still grew in a controlled line on either side of where the old sign was. For some reason, though the fence had been long dug up on and changed into scrap metal, the plants and trees never crossed the border. Perhaps, in their own plant-like way, they felt there was still an unspoken border between the wild and civilization.

The new development of Panem had meant that what was once deemed 'the wild' was no longer. New towns were growing across the land, seeing as there were much more than was ever used during Snow's rule. However, President Paylor, who had grown to become a friend of mine, had personally assured me that Gale and I's woods, our clearing (however, both were now my children's just as they were ours) would be safe from development.

I moved onto a maple across from my bow and arrow's hiding place, where a perfectly placed branch stood. I reached back to pull up my hood as the wind shifted, now gusting in my face. I looped my arms around the lowest split in the tree, rolling my back to bring up my feet against the trunk. Pushing off with my feet, I made it to the top, where I seated myself on a branch and waited for the deer.

The deer were easy to spot as they wandered across the snow covered clearing. The white spot beneath their tails may blend in with their surroundings, but their bronze-brown coats were a dead give away in a snow covered forest.

It took me a few tries, but eventually I swung up one leg to rest my foot against the trunk, as I slowly lowered my back against the wide branch. It also took me a bit to get comfortable on the tree — something I was not used to having to do. Hunting seemed peculiarly unnatural for me on this winter's day, but it had always been an activity so perfectly in sync with my movements and thoughts. Today, I just couldn't get it right. Nevertheless, the deer hadn't yet moved. Rotating my shoulder, I wrapped my fingers against the wood of the bow, securing the arrow between my fingers. I kept my grip firm, yet elastic, just as my father had taught me before he left that day, for the coal mines, never to come back.

Inching my fingers back from the wooden arrow, strung across the horsehair of the bow, I finally brought them back to my hand, feeling the vibration of the arrow as it was released from the grasp of the brow. Effortlessly, it carved through the air, dividing it into time that had already passed, and time not yet passed, until it met it's end— in the neck of the buck.

"Agh!" I shouted as I kicked myself free to escape the tree. The buck had fallen to the ground, thrashing its legs. Blood spotted the otherwise flawless snow, as the doe and fawn scattered off.

The buck was big enough that Gale would have to come meet me to bring it in, but the flailing hooves were enough to take out a limb. Normally, it was unthinkable for me to miss an animal. The arrows always seemed to slip from the notch in the bow at just the right speed and force, so it could pierce the eye without a drop of blood.

Approaching the buck, it's eyes rolled back towards me, causing it to bunch it's hind legs underneath it and push off the snow covered ground, away from me. My arrow was still buried deep in it's neck.

"Ugh," I groaned, tucking my bow under my arm and storming off. It was unthinkable for me to miss a shot. The day's conversation still rang in my head, but I had been able to push it off into the corners of my mind in the beginning of my hunt. Now, it kept slipping back into the front, begging to be thought of, discussed. Tromping through the snow, letting my feet drag, I succumbed to the thought.

My biggest question was why did Peeta stay? It must have been obvious that Gale and I would not ever leave the charred grounds of District 12, for just past the old fence line was our heaven. It was Peeta's home, too, but in a different way. The rebellion cost me Prim (whose name still causes me to well up in tears every time I hear it), but it cost Peeta his entire family. I still had my mother, albeit a couple hundred miles away, and of course, I had Gale. And now my children. Peeta was alone in a district of people he didn't know.

And, how much pain did it cause Peeta to stay and watch the children, that he thought he would have with me? And almost did, considering his plot during the Quarter Quell. How can he bear knowing that I have somebody else now?

I paused in my tracks, looking down at the snow below me. The forest was almost eerily still and silent, and the sun had already made it past the trees. It was getting dark, and time enough to head back to town, with or without dinner. Despite that, I had another errand to run before I returned.

Beating down the path I had come, I broke into a run towards town. Approaching the fence line, I slowed my pace, choosing a brisk walk to take me to the familiar white house. I could see a light on in the back. He was home.


	5. Chapter 5

I tentatively reached out my hand to knock on the door. I wasn't sure whether or not I would eventually regret it. Finally gaining the courage, I rapped my knuckles against the door and stepped back.

"Katniss?" Peeta asked as he opened the door.

"I have a question," I said immediately. "You — why did you stay here?"

"What?"

I pressed my lips together. "Why did you stay in District 12?"

"Why wouldn't I—"

I was impatient in my quest for answers. "Why did you stay in District 12, if it meant watching Gale and I? And our kids? Why did you stay here, when you could've gone anywhere else?"

Peeta's eyes looked as young and fresh as the day we exchanged a glance on Reaping day. "It's my home, too. I may not have anyone here, besides Haymitch, sort of, but it's still my home. I grew up here. My memories are here, buried under these ashes. Whether or not you chose me, that didn't mean I'd completely forget about where I came from."

He seemed incredibly sure in his words. And less reserved than he had been, in our first encounter.

Peeta drew in another breath. "And whether or not it was the guilt that brought you to come make amends with me, I don't know. But, what I do know, is that I'm not ready to be friends with you, or your family, or Gale. I may still live here, but I've chosen this life. Even if it doesn't seem like much to you."

I couldn't get over how quickly he had changed. All of a sudden, he had stopped speaking in fragments, stopped dropping his gaze. He looked me in the eye, holding my gaze firmly. Even his body said he was confident, by the way he was poised in the doorway, suddenly taking up more space than he had before, the hunch gone from his shoulders.

"I don't want to be friends with you, Katniss."

I was the one to drop the gaze this time, using the space between his statement and my reply to come up with my words. "And, maybe that's not what I wanted," I said, a little too defensively. "Maybe, I just wanted to check on you. See how you were doing."

"You don't have to get defensive over _this_," Peeta said, emphasizing. "It's clear that wasn't your intent. That's fine."

"Maybe, I just thought, since we were so close in the Games, that it was worth a visit."

Peeta's face grew frustrated. "God, Katniss, if you're going to lie, at least give me a viable excuse!"

"I'm not lying!" I shouted.

"Then, what are you doing?"

I closed my eyes. "Fine," I say, pausing. But, I didn't know what to say. With him suddenly having more confidence, I had been swept clear of my words. "I wanted to at least know you didn't hate me."

"I don't hate you," he said plainly. "But, I don't want to be friends with you. Or your family."

"Okay."

"Okay."

We stared at each other for a second, his oceans of eyes lapping against the gray stones of mine. "Bye."

"Bye, Katniss."

I soundlessly pad down his steps, towards my own house. I don't hear his door click shut until I'm nearly at home, when he finally steps back into his own house. I realize my bow and arrow are still in my hand, so I jog around the back of my house, tucking it not under my arm, but in the gap between the foundation of the house and the surrounding dirt. Brushing my palms against one another, I trot back around the house and let myself in.

Gale looks up from where he sat on the ground with the kids. "I thought I'd have to go out and drag you back in," he says with a smile. "What took you so long?"

"I went to uh … visit Peeta," I mention. I don't want to say too much in front of the kids, for no reason in particular, but I try to avoid it.

"Oh," he stands up, his tall frame blocking the light of the fire behind him. He moves towards me, wrapping me in a hug. The years between our teenage era and now has left him undoubtedly more affectionate, and no less loyal. "I tried to make dinner," he whispers in my ear.

I giggle. "I'm so sorry, kids," I laugh, reaching for his hand as we walk into the kitchen.

He points towards a overflown pot of beef and cabbage. "The stove—"

I smile. "Help me put something else together?"

"Long as I don't have to work the stove," he replies, another smile spreading across his face.

I laugh, and nod. "Of course."


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: I apologize for not having updated in so long! I don't really have any excuse besides enjoying summertime, so I'll try to make up for it with some new chapters. I'll reveal the names of Katniss & Gale's children in this chapter. As always, thank you for the reviews, favorites and follows, it's great to hear from all of you!**

When dawn broke the next morning, the blizzard had begun to die. Snow had collected on the windows, to the delight of the children, who ran around gleefully, tapping the windowpanes to watch the mini crystals fly into the air. I stirred around some more stew, while Gale built a new fire.

Unlike what I knew in the past, I have money, now. But, for some reason or another, I chose to honor that old lifestyle, teaching my children of cozy fires, warm broths and candlelit evenings. It is a comfortable way of life.

"Why haven't we seen Uncle Haymitch in a while?" Juniper pipes up from across the table, between mouthfuls of beef stew.

Gale nods. "Haven't seen him or Hazelle in a while. We'll have to walk over sometime, it's a bit across to the outskirts of town."

I nod as well. Haymitch, dear, sober Haymitch, fell into the role of uncle as soon as the children were born. Perhaps he didn't know realize it, but the long blonde hair and half shaved face was just a mask for the fatherly instinct within. It wasn't long before he bounced Juniper on one knee, while reciting a story to Lucille. His stories of the Games (not only ours and his, but of all the tributes' he had mentored) far outnumbered mine, and sometimes I wondered why it was me, not him, that taught in the schools. However, as he recalled the memories of a bloodbath by the Cornucopia, or a Quarter Quell that especially amped the challenge, his gaze would fade, his voice falling an octave, harsher, rougher. His words grew plain, his stories falling to mere reciting. The memories, as much as they haunted me, tormented him.

Gale had grown to love Haymitch, as well. Despite losing his father in the same mine explosion that killed mine, he acted as the father in his family for so long. When Haymitch married his mother, I knew he appreciated having someone there.

I look up towards the clock. "Better head off to school," I note, clearing plates. Juniper follows, as does Lucille.

Watching them, I notice how Juniper is almost like Gale, yet almost like Peeta. His hair is a mix between blonde and brown — by the time you've decided it looks like one or the other, it begins to look more like the other. His features are distinctly Gale's, though I swear when his eyes twinkle, I can see the blue in them. His build, however, is Gale's lean but muscular one, and he moves and stands with a distinct confidence that I fail to replicate.

However, when I look at Lucille, I see my little Prim. Her hair is the same ebony as mine, her skin the same olive, but her eyes are more like my little duck's sky blue, than gray of mine. Temper wise, she is her mother's daughter, with a fire rivaling my own. Yet, somewhere, from far out ancestor or perhaps maybe Prim, she has a quiet, accepting side. A talent I would never quite master.

I watch them cross the threshold, into the snow, where they bolt into a run towards school. For them, school doesn't mean the beginning of another work day, another day to scrounge up what you need to survive. School means friends, learning, laughter, happiness. A gift I am so glad — so terribly, utterly, awfully glad — I am able to give them.

"Catnip?" Gale calls from the kitchen. He's arranged himself awkwardly in the doorway, his toes jammed up against the frame so the rest of his lanky body is pushed up against the other side. For Gale, a relaxed position is square, with set feet and open shoulders. However, whatever he's doing now …

"What?" I ask, scrutinizing him. Obviously he's trying to cover something. Gale Hawthorne doesn't try to act confident. He just is.

"It's—" he stops abruptly, and stands back normally. He's given up at covering whatever he's about to say. "It's Haymitch."

My eyes fly open and I bring in a deep breath. "Haymitch? Is he okay? What about Hazelle?"

"My mother, she told me this morning, pretty early …"

"Oh, Gale, what happened?" I'm fearing the worst.

"The alcohol. It's … it's been too many years."

I move towards him, almost at a shout now. "What? What does that mean!?"

"I'm so sorry, Catnip, but he's … he's gone …"

"I saw him just a week ago!" I yell. Gale's hands reach for my forearms, to hold me down, and he succeeds, wrapping his arms around me to stop me. "He's not dead! He can't be!"

"Babe, I'm so sorry, I didn't know how to tell you … with the kids …" he trails off, pressing his lips to my hair.

"He's not dead," I cry. "He's not gone."

I turn my head, burying it into Gale's shoulder. The sobs, the angry sobs, begun to choke up my throat. They catch in my throat, breaking the rest of my body into irate convulsions. Gale guides me to the couch, helplessly trying to comfort me. He's never been terribly good at comforting, but he tries desperately. First, he tries to offer me tea, or coffee, but he ends up wrapping his arms around me and letting me bawl.

"Oh, Gale, your mother …" I whisper through the tears. He rests his chin on my shoulder, running his strong hands across my back.

"She tried to save him," he replies quietly.

"She did so well," I whimper. "I can't believe it …"

I swallow another sob, turning from Gale for a moment to bring my knees up to my chest. I've never been one for tears or crying, but Haymitch is really _gone_. He is no more, not ever to walk the earth, utter a witty comment. Forever locked in the ground, buried with soil and grit, encased in a wooden box six feet below the land where the people who love him walk …


	7. Chapter 7

I spend a little while longer sulking, a little longer sobbing. I crossed the kitchen once, where the bottle of rum sat on a shelf. I stare at it, knees wobbly, eyes clouded, and helplessly begin to reach for it. It wasn't the Games that brought me down on my knees, but the loss of a friend.

Gale rounded the corner, and his face froze when he saw me. He rushes towards me, his upper body falling forward as he knocks the bottle out of my palm. The glass crashes to the floor, splintering into a million pieces. His arm snakes around my waist, locked above my hip, where he drags me away.

He keeps me locked in his arms till we reach the couch, where he finally drops me. Gale takes my shaking wrists in his palms, and stares me down. "Please, please, please don't do this," he whispers.

I don't reply. I dig my teeth into my lip, praying it doesn't wobble too much.

"Katniss!" he says, rather sharply. When my gaze snaps back to meet his, his gray eyes instantly soften. "I'm sorry. _Oh_, babe, I'm so sorry," he leans his forehead slightly, meeting it against mine. "Please don't do this. Please don't leave me. Please, please, please don't do this."

"I know he was an incredibly close friend, maybe even a father," Gale continues. "But, what would he say if what killed him, was what killed you? He didn't fight to get you out of the Games, so you could drown yourself in his personal drug of choice."

When I continue to refuse to respond, Gale meets my lips with a gentle kiss. "I need to go hunting, love. Please promise me you'll stay away from that nasty stuff. Or, better yet, come with me?" before he lets me reply, he brings me in for one last hug, and I press my face against his shoulder, brushing my cheek against the flannel.

I let him pull me up with him, only to separate when we meet the door. I slip my feet into my leather boots, while Gale does the same. We step out of the door together. I'm able to keep it together as we cross the snow covered road, which has been plowed several times already. When we turn by the gray clapboard house, where a lonely smoke trail winds out of the chimney, my knees get weak.

"Come on," Gale whispers as he laces my fingers with mine. I cling tightly to his fingers, feeling every individual scar. The Capitol has not touched Gale, never fixed him. He is as he was, and I love it.

The wind bites as we climb up the steps towards the lonely door. Everything about the house, even in the first hours after Haymitch left this earth, is lonely. The way the flower boxes hang heavy with wet snow, the way the light seems to look sadly out of the windows.

Gale's knock is timid and quiet, but Hazelle appears nonetheless. She, too, looks lonely and sad. Her shoulders are rounded, her arms limp as they hang. Gale takes her in a hug, and the strong woman begins to shed a tear.

When Gale finally lets go, I immediately wrap Hazelle in the same hug. "I'm so sorry," I console. "Thank you so much for everything you did for him."

For the first time, and perhaps the fist time for Gale as well, I see Hazelle cry. Forever, she has been the strong woman, who worked her fingers to the bone to support her fatherless family. Forever, she has been the quietly confident woman, who worked far after the fire burned out every night to make sure her children had bread to eat. Hazelle opens the door for us, and we clamber inside.

Hazelle doesn't seem up for the company, but we are already there to offer it. She gathers her skirt and settles on an old wooden chair, placing her feet on the floor thoughtfully.

"We were on our way hunting," Gale says softly. There is a fondness in his voice that only comes out when he speaks to Hazelle. Even with me and the children, there is a different sort of love, a mother and son.

"Do you want us to bring you back something?" I offer.

"Oh, you don't have to, dears," Hazelle says.

I shake my head, and squeeze her shoulder. "We will. Really, it's no problem."

"You better go soon, then," she replies. "I don't want to keep you all day."

"Oh, Mum," Gale whispers as he wraps her in a last hug. He reaches once again for my hand as we reach the door.

Turning back to Hazelle, I touch three fingers to my lips and extend them out. A District 12 symbol for goodbye, admiration and _love_.


	8. Chapter 8

"Can we bring down something for Peeta, too?" I mention, letting my bow fall down to my side. "We have enough."

"Peeta?" Gale asks. He's obviously still uneasy about Peeta, still unsure about the Boy with the Bread. "He tried to kill you."

He's right, yes, but it's the same argument he uses every time this comes up. Whether or not the years have mellowed Gale or helped heal Peeta, I'm not sure.

"Haymitch was his mentor, too," I say. "He looked like hell the last time I went over."

Gale raises his eyebrows. "Fine."

I eye him, as he purses his lips and turns away. "What's your deal?"

Gale brings his hands to his knees, stiffly standing up. "Look. I know you were once close with Peeta, but I'm not really comfortable with this. And it's—"

"About our relationship?"

Gale's expression grows annoyed. "No. It's about him trying to kill you."

"He won't!" I exclaim, throwing down my sheath of arrows. "Trust him. It's been years. I just want to bring him some meat."

"I helped bring it down, don't you think I should have a say in where it goes?" He shoots back. He's especially annoyed now, with his lower jaw set slightly ahead of his upper jaw, with both rigid and locked.

"My arrows," I reply.

"I made them."

"For me," I add. I dig the toe of my boot into the ground.

Gale turns his back to me. "Christ, Catnip," at least I know he's not angry when he calls me. "Can you just not go over there?"

"It's not your choice, let it go," I assure him, glancing down for a second to hook my bow around my foot, before reaching for it with my hand.

I hear his breathing, the quiet breaths followed by a deep sigh. "Then, let me go with you," he finally says. "For my own peace of mind."

"Fine," I reply curtly, as I bring my finger across the string, letting it fly towards a buck that had wandered in front of us. Skirting my finger down the inside of the wooden part of the bow, I slip it to the ground. "And now we have more than enough meat. Let's go."

Gale pulls back the edges of his cheeks in an irritated smile, and follows me towards our newest kill. "Fine," he repeats.

He helps me loop the rope around the buck's legs, drawing the ropes up our shoulders so we can carry it back. We purposely take the long route, behind a row of houses and a corn field. There's no reason we couldn't bring it straight through the center of town, but for some reason, it's still a bit touchy to bring a dead animal through the town square, casually slung over your shoulder.

"Let's give Hazelle the buck," Gale calls over his shoulder.

I'm feeling cheeky, so I reply with an impassive "Fine."

The buck folds a little as Gale nearly comes to a stop, obviously put out by our trivial fights. "Oh, lighten it up, Hawthorne," I continue. "It's not like I haven't pushed your buttons before."

I could almost hear Gale roll his eyes. Either way, I could hear him chuckle. "And it's not like I haven't pushed yours, either," he replied, laughing.

I smiled, breaking into a run with my end of the deer. Gale gasps, but picks up a sprint and passes me. "Hey, wait!" I call, pulling at the rope to raise the deer on my shoulder to catch up.

We're both breathless by the time we reach Hazelle's door. Sliding it off our shoulders, we rest it upon the wall while she endlessly thanks us. She looks just as tired as before, but the tiniest bit delighted by the sight of the deer.

Gale grows a bit grimmer as we trot down Hazelle's doorstep.

"Peeta's?" I ask.

Gale sighs quietly. It wasn't the type of sigh that is purposefully expelled to get the other person's attention, rather, an actual sigh. "Let's go, hun." He wraps his fingers around the burlap sack that we fill with game each day, and hauls it up onto his broad shoulders.

We walk silently for most of the trip, till Gale finally speaks again. "If he kills you, or even moves towards you to _try _to kill you, do I have permission to rip his head off?"

"Easy, killer," I laugh, climbing the steps. "But, if it makes you feel better …"

He beams back at me, pausing when we reach the door. His eyes silently tell me to ring the door, that he's not going to do it himself. I shrug, reaching forward to press the button.

Peeta appears quickly, almost a little too quickly, as if he was waiting on the other side of the door. "Katniss," he breathes when he sees me. He doesn't bother to mention Gale.

But, I'm determined to at least have Gale say something. I tap my elbow against his, and watch him draw in another irritated breath. "We brought some fresh game," he says flatly, shoving the bag of rabbit at Peeta.

"Have you heard about Haymitch?" Peeta asks, just as plainly. I expected him to be a bit more soft with the topic, a bit more explicit, but maybe the Boy with the Bread has lost his words.

"Yea," Gale answers for me. "Sorry to hear about him."

"Me, too," Peeta adds. For a moment, it's almost as if they can hold lighthearted conversation, if at the cost of Haymitch's death.

Peeta turns to me. "How are you, Katniss?"

I look a second over to Gale, lightning my expression. "Fine, and you?"

"Well."

Gale presses his lips together and nods, a signal to me to wrap it up. "Enjoy the meat," I remark as we turn back down the steps.

"I don't like him," Gale says quickly, when we've reached our house.

"You don't have to," I reply just as quickly. "he's not your friend, and he's not mine either."

Gale narrows his eyes, but his grey eyes are softer than usual. "Catnip …"

"It's fine," I say. When he moves his face a bit closer to me, I relax my face, smiling. "No, no, it's fine. I mean, it's good. It's okay!"

Gale twists one side of his face into a smile, and claps his hand on my back. "I'm glad."


	9. Chapter 9

**AN: I'm losing my muse on this story … not really sure where I'm going or what I was thinking in the first place. I don't think it's one of my better plots, or even my best writing, and it's just not what I thought it would be. So bear with me, I won't end it since the story isn't in a good place for that, but I'll work on some other stories and song fics. As always, thank you for the continued reviews, favorites & follows! It means a lot to me.**

"I'm going to Peeta's," I whisper as I slip out of bed that morning.

Gale blinks confusedly, till he runs his hand down his face. "What?"

"I just … I want to check on him, with Haymitch and all. Just let me go," I say to him, maybe a bit too annoyed. "I get that you're worried, but it's alright."

"Go, Catnip," he replies. "I trust you."

I leave him with a last peck before going down the stairs. My bare feet stick to the cold floor, so I poke the fire before pulling on my boots and rushing out the door. It had snowed again overnight, so the earth was blissfully clean and new. In fact, the snow is blinding as I make my way out of the doorway.

I know Peeta's on the other side of the door, just as he was yesterday, when I reach his house. I tap my fingers against the door, and he opens. He was expecting me — for some reason or another — which isn't a bad thing, considering our history.

"Hi," I say, offering a smile.

He doesn't bother to return the gesture. Instead, flatly, he says "Hi."

"How are you doing? With Haymitch and everything …" I trail off, dragging my fingertips across the layer of dust that covers one of the tables. Peeta really has neglected taking care of his home.

"Fine."

"Peeta, I know he was pretty important to you," I remark.

"So were you."

I cross my arms. "Stop this."

"Stop _what_?" Peeta replies, almost at a whine.

I eye the rest of the house. "Look, I know you're not doing so hot. That's okay, we've both got a lot of baggage from … everything. But, I know you're not doing okay with Haymitch gone. I know he checked up on you. So come with me, we're going to go to the Hob and get you some food."

"I have enough food," he says.

"What about cleaning supplies? The place is going to hell."

I can see his arms start to string with tension, the muscles clenching. Maybe I had triggered a flashback ..

"I don't need your help," Peeta utters through gritted teeth. He's fighting himself.

"You do," for some reason, I continue to reply. I should leave, I should run, but I'm not, even as I watch him step back from me, digging his fingers into the railings of the stairwell.

"Katniss," he breathes, much as he did in his greeting the previous day. "Go. Go now."

I want to run, but my legs are lead. I'm suddenly in the Games all over again, waiting for the countdown to end. I can't get my legs to cooperate, can't get them to run, but I know I will be left swimming in the bloodbath of the Cornucopia.

"Go!" Peeta screams. "Katniss, go! Go, go! Run!"

I'm still bolted to the floor. The fear is crawling through me, traveling down his legs and electrifying me just feet from him.

Tears are budding from his eyes. "Please, Katniss, go, please …" Peeta trails off, letting out a gurgle and a pitiful cry. "Please go!"

I can't move. I can't leave. I can't go!

"Please!" Peeta wails. Every one of the tendons in his arm is raised, veins popping under his pale skin. His legs are bent at the knee, coiled steel, ready to leap.

"I can't!" I shriek.

I'm terrified now. I remember few times where I have been this filled with fear. I am almost at the brink of tears, having flashbacks of my own of his attacks in the hospital. But, we're alone in here. There's nobody here to save me … nobody to stop him …

"Why aren't you going? Why aren't you leaving!?" Peeta exclaims, now reduced to full blown tears. He lets go of his fingers on the railing, and crumples to the floor. "Why are you still here?! Why are you doing this to me?"

"I can't! I'm sorry! I can't! I can't!" I repeat.

I'm scared for him as I'm scared for me. He's in agony, clinging to any object he can, trying to inch away from me. "Please go … please go … please go …" he whispers between screams and cries. "Please _go_!"

I'm blubbering in tears now. I can't stop, I don't know why, but I can't move either. So, I utter the most obvious thing I can think of. "Don't hurt me …"

"Please go …" Peeta repeats at a whisper, beating his fists against the wall.

"She's going," someone replies for me, as their fingers wrap around my wrist and drag me out. "Don't worry."


End file.
